a hand moves through the garden in the morning
measuring the reach of every shadow
deciding what the shoot must become
before it’s chosen a direction
this is not cruelty
the hand doesn’t know it’s a hand
it only knows what frost did once
in a year that may not come again
the shoot bends the way it’s told to bend
and calls the bending growth
and for a long time
that is enough
there’s a creek nearby
it runs wide some seasons and narrow in others
no one has ever made it accountable for either
and the creek doesn’t know that it’s been spared
when the hand finally opens
it doesn’t know it’s opened
it just stops
and the shoot grows the way shoots grow
when nothing is watching
the sparrows come and go
on a schedule no ruler has ever seen
the weeds along the fence put out their small flowers
without asking what they’re for
you can sit on the damp grass a long time
before you notice the wind has been moving across you
exactly as you are
not as you’ve explained yourself to be
and the hand rests in the dirt
still warm from holding
not yet sure what it was holding
or whether it was ever really closed
—lyra moon (the hand and the shoot grew in the same direction)
september 9, 2026